


The Devil Within

by DamadiSangue



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Wesker children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 23:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamadiSangue/pseuds/DamadiSangue
Summary: Don’t ever wonderhowa monster was born; it would be like wonderinghowa man was born.Don’t ever ask yourself useless questions, whose answers already lie in the darkest corners of your mind, under the bed of your conscience, inside the wardrobe of your filthiest secrets.





	The Devil Within

"Now I'm become Death, the destroyer of worlds."  
\- J. Robert Oppenheimer -

 

**The Devil within**

  
A long time ago, a boy got a paper house as a gift.  
It was big _and_ red _and_ white and it was _crushed_ by his aggressive fingers.  
He then got a mansion, full of monsters and tin soldiers.  
He clenched his fists and _smashed_ it like a pesky and putrid bug.  
Worried, his parents gave him infinite skyscrapers and entire cities, the exotic beauty of unknown and faraway places.  
The boy smiled and said _is that all?_  
His parents were desperate then, and asked him what he wanted other than everything they’d already offered.  
The boy laughed and pointed at the _whole_ world.

  
  
**Sonata # 14,  Moonlight Sonata, Adagio sostenuto**

 

"All extremes of feeling are allied with madness."  
\- Virginia Woolf -

**You won’t see me in the mirror, but I crept into your heart.**

 

Power is conquest.  
Power is an abstract yet terribly physical - _carnal_ \- concept.  
Excella is _hungry._  
She’s a girl loudly claiming her place in the world, as if she was still a teenager.  
She slams the door, making the windows tremble.  
“Pigs.” she starts “Stupid sons of bitches.”  
She breaks a glass just to make her presence known; she’s going to be the face and _future_ of Tricell and _fuck_ the senior members.  
She walks back and forth, running a hand through her hair.  
“The meeting with the board of directors wasn’t a success, I suppose.”  
Excella bares her teeth, glaring at him.  
“It wasn’t.” she grumbles, leaning against the seatback “And they don’t want to listen to me.”  
Albert disarmingly smiles - deceiver.  
“But they’re not getting away _that_ easily.”  
Excella relaxes her stiffened back, sighing.  
“They’re not.” she agrees “They’re not.” and opens the last drawer of her desk “Las Plagas’s gonna be _my_ success, _my_ leading project.”  
Albert nods, reassuring - **liar.**  
“Of course.”  
Excella looks at him askance, studying him carefully and curiously.  
She then leans forward, straightening her shoulders and folding her arms across her chest.

_Ostentation. Offering. Desire._

Wesker widens his smile, leaning back and slightly spreading his legs.

_Ambition. Longing. Reciprocity._

The day dies out as Excella walks one step closer to the abyss.  
  
  
**I’m learning all your tricks, I can hurt you from inside.**

 

The sun is falling down outside.  
Excella clings to it with slim and pale fingers, letting it _bleed_ on her skin.  
She smiles at the monster she hides in her heart, as that she has in her bed is a _terrible_ and demanding beast, an obsessed and obsessive man.  
She gently brushes his nape, running with her forefinger on an old and faded scar, memory of a dead life.  
Wesker stares at her with inhuman eyes, so empty they could almost break her soul.  
_Almost._  
She smiles, and caresses the monster fearlessly.  
Albert was the one who gave her _everything,_ who stole her _everything._  
Yet, nothing is ever _enough_ for Excella.

  
**You can’t make me disappear, until I make you.**

 

Yersinia pestis: the vanguard of infections; the black beast that had changed the world, crushing one out of three tiers of the global population in its ruthless vise.  
Gram-negative Coccobacillus, non-motile and psychrophile. A minuscule non-lactose fermenting cylinder-like bacteria, ridiculously small, _extraordinarily_ strong.  
Excella raises an eyebrow, chuckling - ambitious and guilty.  
“How long did it take for the infection to develop?”  
_Ages, dear Albert_ she’d answer _Seven hundred years, if I recall correctly._  
“Two hours.” she tells him instead, with the mechanical and aseptic voice of a little birdie.  
“Too little time.”  
_Too much time, end of story_ she mentally replies.  
The little birdie bends her head down, leaning forward; falling silent like a doll whose cord was ripped off.  
“We need to stabilize it.”  
And Excella is already imagining the black evil bursting into houses, spreading across the streets.  
She’s imagining people running away and leaving cities in search of any salvation; forsaking _everything_ , believing in _everything._  
She can clearly see the blackish and livid buboes breaking their skin, their lungs collapsing in bloody and shapeless sludge.  
She can hear their shrieking, their pleading, their desperate cries for help.

_And now I'm become Death, the destroyer of worlds._

“Excella.” the Beast calls, and she answers - as she _always_ does.  
“I’ll personally take care of that; it’s all about raising the serum antibodies and the coadjuvant levels. Nothing that can’t be fixed in a couple of days.”  
Arrogance. Presumption. Intelligence. **Pride.**

_Love, maybe. Perhaps hope. **Perhaps.**_

A smile; the thin line between fair and wrong crossed - _erased._

_Yersinia pestis._

It’s curious how future is nothing more than past relived.

  
**I made myself a promise, you would never see me cry.**

 

Excella is a woman of her word.  
She stares at the injection site as if she was bewitched, grotesquely fascinated.  
“You infected _me_.”  
And there’s no inflexion in her voice; no wonder.  
“I did.”  
Excella forces a smile, baring beautiful and perfectly white teeth.  
There’s awareness in her eyes when she looks at him.  
There’s such a deep seriousness it _hurts_.  
Excella feels the parasite tangling up in her own guts and _pulling_ , ready to come into the world in the obscene parody of a birth.  
Yet Excella won’t cry, as she’s got a promise to keep.  
She will fall on her knees and _die_ crying out his name, but she won’t cry.  
She won’t apologize and she won’t come back, she won’t regret _anything_.  
Excella won’t do anything, as Albert deprived her of everything a bit at a time, one piece at a time, until she was no more than cruel ambition and shameless desire.  
Excella will _burn_ , but she won’t cry; not until he’s there looking at her.

_“Are you crying?”_  
_“I’m not.”_  
_“Liar.”_  
_“And what if I am?”_  
_“Queens don’t ever cry, Excella; they stand up and **smash** the hand that hit them, but they never weep. Especially if the world can do that for them.”_

The world won’t shed a tear at the news of her death.

 

  
**Sonata # 14,  Moonlight Sonata, Allegretto**

 

"I shall continue to exist.   
I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist."   
\- Vladimir Nabokov -

 

**I made myself at home in the cobwebs and the lies.**

Chris learnt there’s no way history can be changed; as much as you want it - as much as you _try_ \- it stays there where you left it, never changing.  
He stares at his reflection but he doesn’t recognize himself, he answers to a role he doesn't want.  
  
_Captain._

He clenches his fists around the edge of the sink until he’s got white knuckles, swallowing bitterness and poor quality gin.  
The light on the ceiling above his head sways, drawing arches of light and dark where he finds...

_Him._

“You are dead.” he says loudly, as to reassure himself “I _killed_ you.”  
Leather and chemical drugs; the vague scent of blood and sweat.  
“Leave me alone: this is _not_ your story anymore.”

_You’re right: it’s not mine._

Chris suddenly raises his head, startled.

_It’s **ours.**_

There are monsters out there making their weapon out of our heart and their home out of our soul.

  
**You’ll never know what hit you, won’t see me closing in.**

  
  
What’s most important is knowing what to tell other people, beyond the extension of ourself.  
For a moment, for a fraction of time, Chris knows: he _feels_ it.  
Time slides away through his fingers and that’s when he clings to Piers, trying to hold him tight.

_No._

Nivans pries the lock of the door, cracking it.  
“No!” Redfield shouts out “Don’t do it, Piers! We’ll take care of you! I will _save_ you!”  
Piers shakes his head, smiling at him.

_And God, it hurts._

Chris bangs his fists on the reinforced glass, clinging to that feeble hope typical of the condemned.

_And now something’s happening so that Piers changes his mind._  
_It’s just a matter of minutes and everything will get back to its place and the vise crushing my heart will suddenly become relief, and I’ll cry and laugh and..._

“Nothing is more important than the sacrifice of the most loyal of your soldiers.”  
The escape pod leaves the perimeter, gaining power.  
“Nothing, but what it will lead to.”  
Chris pounds the door with his feet, looking at Piers getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away.  
“Honor.”  
The whole facility collapses, the sea itself trembles.  
“Dedication.”  
The pressure crushes him to the ground, almost preventing him from breathing.  
“Self-denial.”  
The recoil throws him forward, his nose and jaw hitting the floor of the pod.  
“Perseverance.”  
Chris struggles, swallowing tears and blood.  
“Devotion.”  
The sea roars, erupting ruins and shadows.  
“This I promise; this I swear. This...”  
“This seal I choose to serve, here and now, tomorrow and forever.” Chris anticipates, baring his teeth “Semper Fidelis.”  
The sun rises painting the sky pink, an unexpectedly delicate - _taunting_ \- dawn.  
Wesker smiles at him, blurred and faded as a dream -a nightmare.  
“ _Good boy._ ”  
The seal of the ~~BSAA~~ S.T.A.R.S. burns like all the promises he could never keep.

 

  
**Sonata # 14,  Moonlight Sonata, Presto agitato**

 

"And suddently, the monster in him falls silent as he rests his head in her lap."  
\- Anonimo -

 

**I’m underneath your skin, the devil within.**

He’s back.  
Alex _sniffs_ the air, moistening her lips.  
He kisses her - _bites_ her - and he’s brutal and frustrated and _desperate._  
Alex represses a moan and _screams_ when he thrusts into her, her cloths still on and a dull pain between her thighs.  
“You’re hurting me.” she tells him, and Albert hides his head into her hair, running his fingers on her cheeks, the pale line of her neck, her mouth.  
“I know.” and he almost cries as well when he comes, nestling her against his chest as if she was to fall into pieces at any moment.  
Alex loosens her legs around his hips, breathing his scent, leather and ice.  
“Is the situation so critical?” she asks him, and Wesker keeps quiet, brushing a voracious and bleeding bite with his tongue on her skin.  
Alex closes her eyes, imperceptibly nodding.

Plic, plic, _plic._

Silence has the same sound of his beating heart.

  
**My love is your disease, I won't let it set you free.**

 

Alex doesn’t know what happened and she’s not even sure she _wants_ to know.  
She wraps herself up in the blanket and sighs against the pillow, opening an eyelid and lazily looking at the open windows of the balcony.  
“It’s still early.” she begins, smothering a yawn “ _Too_ early.” and further sinks under the bed sheets.  
“Sushestvovanie is just not gratifying in the early morning.”  
Albert stares at the horizon, dismembering it.  
Alexandra stand up on her elbows, trying to focus on him.  
“If you _have_ to leave...”  
“No.” he suddenly says, lifting his weight from one leg to the other “Not yet.”  
Alex gives him a surprised, curious glance.  
“Not yet.” he repeats, and Alex listens to the words of a man that’s already dead.

 

**I tried to be the lover to your nightmare, look what you made of me.**

 

It’s been two days since Albert left Kijuju.  
His phone lies abandoned on the table, turned off.  
Alex looks at him dubiously, taking a cup of coffee to her lips and slightly moistening them.  
Albert looks like a confused silhouette under the bed sheets behind her, a figure with more and more corners as night goes by.  
Alex draws near walking on her tiptoes, moving the blankets away and sliding by his side; she looks at him for a second, his eyes closed, his regular breath.  
Albert’s virus is feeble, its strength pale and fading.  
She can trace its jagged and broken outlines with her fingertips, she can listen to its groans and feel its fragile resistance.  
She looks at him sighing in his sleep, just barely moving; imprecise gestures, sometimes even aggressive, and frightened.  
“How long has it been since you properly slept, Albert?” she asks to the silence, and it surprisingly responds.  
“ _Too_ long.”  
Alex smiles, leaning her head back as she feels him brushing her breasts with the tip of his tongue, rubbing his face against her abdomen and sliding lower -his pupil relaxed, his irises liquid and softened.  
Alex shamelessly spreads her thighs, smothering the beats of her own heart in her throat.  
She studies his movements, supporting them; his hands on her hips, the graceful curve of his neck, his lips and tongue opening and closing for her - _on_ her, _in_ her.  
She comes in his mouth with the same abandon of every human being, grasping his hair with her fingers and forcing him to look at her.  
He won’t tell her what’s happening, he won’t explain the reason of his staying.

_She has no need for it._

He breathes against her shoulder and grasps her buttocks, impatient.  
Alex moans, welcoming his thrusts.  
The virus _roars_ , as whenever he’s with her - _inside of her_ \- it recognizes more than just its equal counterpart.

_Maybe it’s love, or desire. Maybe it’s something **more.**_

The virus tells him of a sentiment that can’t must not be named and pushes him forward and _forward,_ closer and _closer_ to the edge, until Alex arches her back underneath his fingers and surrenders and...

_Ah._

Alex bares his teeth, clinging to his shoulders; beautiful and desperate and _immoral_ as their own existence.  
One breath cut off; raspy, uninhibited.

_Hungry._

Albert is wet between her thighs, but he won’t move: he sniffs her skin, their orgasm, licking a thin trail of blood running along the gentle curve of her breasts.  
“Uhm.” Alex simply says, caressing his vertebrae one by one, on and on “Welcome back.” and Albert nods, hiding his face in her hair.  
Alex smiles and closes her eyes.

**Now I’m a heavy burden that you can’t bear, look what you made of me.**

 

Sometimes, she’d like to ask him.  
Sometimes she’d like to grab him by the lapel of his suit and shout out _why?_  
Isn’t it enough what we have? Isn’t it enough what we _could_ have?

_Am I not enough?_

Alex torments her fingers, putting her nails one below the other until they bleed.  
“When?” she asks, and Wesker turns his back on her.  
“Soon enough.”  
“It’s a mistake.”  
Wesker stiffens his jaw, keeps on listing every object in the lab.  
“It’s a...”

_You will die._

Alex raises her eyes, holding the tears back.

_Because we ~~never~~ cry, we ~~never~~ love. Because we are the vanguard of the new world, the chosen race. Because we ~~do~~ ~~not~~ exist._

“When?” she repeats, and Albert stops, rounded shoulders and closed eyes.  
“In a week.”  
Alex nods, shaking her head from left to right - rejecting every hope.  
“And then?”  
Albert sighs - he wheezes,.  
“And then we’ll be free, Alexandra.”

_Free to live; free to die._

Alex runs a hand through her hair, looking for him.  
“I’ll be waiting.” she only murmurs, as there’s nothing more worth saying “I’ll be waiting for you, Albert.”  
Wesker smiles, smothering that _stay_ in a demanding and broken kiss.  
“I know, Alexandra; _I know_.”  
One week later Alex Wesker would be reduced to nothing more than ruins and regrets.

  
**I will keep quiet, you won’t even know I’m here.**

 

Monsters are not different from us.  
They laugh when something is amusing, they suffer when they’re hurt.  
They want _to live_ , they want _to thrive_ , they want _to be happy._  
Monsters want, and that’s enough for them to be considered similar to any human being.  
Claire leans forward, without closing her eyes.  
Moira draws back, protecting herself from a spurt of blood and brain that can’t really hit her.

_Overseer._

Claire had met many monsters.  
Some had been old and rotting, other ruthless and golden warriors of blood.  
For the most part they were grotesque mutations, horrid travesties of bodies that had been more than just voracious mouths and tentacled deformities.

_Why?_

“We have to go.” Moira tells her, grabbing the sleeve of her jacket “Everything is going down.”

_But it was already ruins and dust to you, wasn’t it, Overseer?_

Claire stares at a monster that’s never looked more like a human.

  
**I’m gonna make you suffer, this hell you put me in.**

 

Monsters are human: in fact they’re the true portrait of humanity, the nice face in which greatness and misery coexist.  
Claire has seen as much shit to be enough for two lives, yet...

_Yet._

What’s left of the Overseer writhes before her eyes, driven only by hunger and rage and...

_Loneliness. Call it by her name, Claire._

She shoulders her rifle, taking aim.

_What happened to you so you ended up like this, Overseer?_

Alex _cries,_  and that’s a terrible sound.  
Claire estimates the trajectory, the wind, the movement of the helicopter and...

_Goodbye, Overseer; whoever you are._

Don’t ever wonder _how_ a monster was born; it would be like wondering how _a man_ was born.  
Don’t ever ask yourself useless questions, whose answers already lie in the darkest corners of your mind, under the bed of your conscience, inside the wardrobe of your filthiest secrets.  
Monsters are the modern Babadook: beautiful, clever and successful.  
They hold the horror in their hearts, but not on their faces - not on that same mouth Excella had entrust everything to.  
They nurture their true nature in the silence of their dreams, delusions Alex had believed in until her last breath.  
They feed on trust betrayed, broken promises and pacts ended in blood and bones.

_“How long have you been with Umbrella?”_  
_“Oh, Chris, I think you didn’t quite get the situation; I’ve always worked for Umbrella.”_

They change water into poison, food into gall.

_“Us?”_  
_“So slow to catch on, Chris; so stupid.”_

They thrive in your uncertainties, hitting wherever it hurts the most.

_“Jill! Please, listen to me! Jill!”_

The air fills with dust, Claire sighs.  
The monster is dead, the fairytale is safe.  
  
_Then why do I feel so sick?_

The hero looks at themselves in the mirror and finds...

**_Us._ **

 

  
**Requiem Mass in D minor (K. 626); Lacrimosa**

 

A boy got a house of paper and lies as a gift.  
It was red and white and _too small_ for his ambitions.  
He then got a mansion, and all of its horrors and monsters.  
He also got infinite cities and skyscrapers made of glass and silver, but nothing was ever enough.  
The boy grew up and changed into a ruthless man, cruel and demanding.  
His frightened and anguished parents offered him then the only thing he hadn’t got yet; a heart.  
But that heart rotted in the end, changing into a blackish, sticky, exhausted fist.  
The parents of that child died, mere bugs in his existence of man and god.  
And for a long time, it was just his voice keeping him company.

_“I killed him.”_  
_“I know.”_

Then, a woman came up.  
_Wait_ she said _I need to show you something_ and offered him the same paper house (red and white and small) of his childhood.  
She offered him the same mansion, the same monsters and horrors.  
She deployed infinite skyscrapers and iron cities before his curious look, expendable pawns and even the few allies she’d met.  
The man looked at her, surprised.  
The woman smiled, pointing at the first house.  
_I was there, too, you know?_ she said _Right beside you_.  
Time stopped, the woman started to tell.  
The voice of the man was not alone in the silence anymore.

_“I’ll be waiting for you.”_  
_“I know.”_

Years passed, a life passed.  
The princess came, the knight as well.  
The man and the woman fell victim to a curse, and their fairytale crumpled in the spiral of an ungrateful fate.  
Fire was the curse of the man, solitude that of the woman.  
In the dark, the house, the mansion, all those cities and skyscrapers were just painful memories, worthless objects.  
The woman cried, then stood up again; in fact, the fairytale was not over yet.

_“I let you die.”_  
_“It’s not your fault.”_

The curse was broken, a whole world was.  
A witch came in that solitary realm and said yes, there’s a way to see him again; you can indeed be together again.  
The woman believed her, and entrusted everything she had left to oblivion.  
The witch girl smiled and casted her spell.

_“My brother’s escape was death; soon it will be mine as well.”_

The knight, the princess and the witch girl came.  
They glanced at the bloody horizon and followed its trail to a fire extinguished, caught up by winter.  
_Look,_ the princess said, _it worked._  
The knight nodded, the witch girl cried.  
Inside the ashes of that fire, caught in the dust of a story that’s too old to be still told, lied everything left of the man and woman; two children who had never been as such.

_“You’re back.”_  
_“I promised.”_

Two hearts that had started beating again.

 

 

 

**"It's our oldest deadliest impulse.**  
**The need to protect our own at the expense of any other living thing.**  
**And we give that impulse such a nice name, don't we?  Love.**  
**And love is a psychopath."**  
**\- Sophia Hyde -**

 


End file.
